


Old Roads and Rolling Stones

by brokenlittleboy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-08
Updated: 2013-08-08
Packaged: 2017-12-22 19:01:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/916898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokenlittleboy/pseuds/brokenlittleboy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean decide to take a break and go on a road trip, during which they fall in love and listen to classic rock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Old Roads and Rolling Stones

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, I made a playlist out of all the songs that play during their roadtrip-- a couple aren't even in the fic, but they still matter a lot, I just couldn't find the time to fit them in. I'd appreciate it if you gave it a listen, it really adds to this story. You can find it here: 8tracks.com/brothersinlove/road-trippers

Six A.M., a little too early for Dean’s liking, but when Sam was set on something and equipped with those fucking stupid dewy eyes, Dean couldn’t exactly say no, could he?

Dean’s grumbling stopped when Sam stepped out of the bathroom, looking decidedly uncomfortable and blushing redder than hell.

_Damn._

Dean realized he was staring when Sam’s hands moved to his hips.

“My face is up here, Dean,” he said, glowering.

“Oh, uh, right. Sorry. I just… Damn,” Dean commented, reaching back to scratch his neck in embarrassment.

Dean was dressed similarly to Sam, but fuck. Sam wore those skinny jeans really, _really_  well. His legs just seemed to go on and on forever, and Dean wouldn’t mind spending years looking at them, no matter how much Sam bitched.

Sam’s leather jacket fit snugly, and it made him look thinner and lithe, but still not someone you’d wanna mess with. It was zipped most of the way shut, but you could see just a bit of one of Dean’s older black ‘Zeppelin shirts— Sam still hadn’t gained all of his weight back from the trials. His scuffed up boots had been replaced with a newer, black pair. Around his neck, he wore Dad’s dog tags, and nestled in the crook of his right arm was a shiny black motorcycle helmet with a “STANFORD” bumper sticker taped to the back.

 

In short, he looked bad ass, and really hot.

“I feel stupid,” Sam complained, and he was still blushing.

“You don’t look stupid,” Dean said, and gave a low whistle.

“Dean,” Sam chided, but he was smiling.

Suddenly, Dean really wanted to change the subject, so he gestured to himself, which might seem like the opposite thing to do. “Well, how do I look, Fonzie?”

Sam shrugged, looking up and down the length of him, which made him feel odd in a way he couldn’t quite describe. “I mean… we should do this more often.”

Dean laughed. It was good, then.

Dean had chosen a brown leather bomber jacket, with pins of all of his favorite bands decorating it. He had jeans just like Sam’s, but they were purposefully worn, with holes in the middle. Sam had complained about getting “less bang for his buck”, but Dean liked them. His jacket hung open, and under it, he wore a simple white v-neck, that just barely showed his tattoo. Sam really liked that fact but would never admit to it, but Dean knew. Because he knew everything about Sam. For this reason, he kept the jacket open. His shoes were brown leather hiking boots, and they had splurged a little on these, because why the fuck not? They had lived their whole life on scraps, and this whole trip was one big break from normal. Dean’s helmet was black, too, but he had written “KAZ 2Y5” on the back in white sharpie, because he felt bad about leaving Baby here. He also had a pretty sweet pair of biker gloves.

“Shall we go, then? Big open country waiting for us.” Dean pointed to the door, and then bowed, commenting, “ladies first,”

Sam scoffed, but moved forward, and snagged their motel keys from the side table as he left.

Dean was grateful for leaving last, mainly so he could protect Sam (because you never know when some bastard is gonna hurt your little brother) but also so he could enjoy the view of some perfectly-fitting jeans.

Outside in the parking lot, shining under the summer sun, two Harley-Davidson bikes sat side-by-side. Dean’s was a classic, a real beauty, bought at a bargain from a man who didn’t know what he was missing. A 1967 FLH-Shovelhead, one that really rumbles. Dean would never, ever trade the Impala for anything, but this bike had him salivating. He kinda felt like he was cheating on his car, but the bike was just incredible.

For Sam, however, he had done research on the safest bike possible, with all the special features that would stop his baby brother from getting into too bad of an accident. They were all relatively similar in terms of safety, but the newer, the better. He had gotten Sam a 2013 Harley-Davidson streetglide, in cherry red, with antilock brakes and all that jazz. Backpacks sat strapped to the back of both bikes.

“Let’s do this,” Sam said, rubbing his hands. Dean nodded at him, striding over to his bike and hooking a leg over it, hopping on.

“You got the map?” he asked.

Sam rolled his eyes. “Of course,” he scoffed.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, geekboy,” Dean teased.

“Pie-lover,” Sam accused, and knew how shitty that insult was. There was something he wanted to say much more, he just wanted to call Dean the jerk he really was, but he was deathly afraid Dean wouldn’t respond with “bitch”. If he didn’t, Sam didn’t know what he’d do. Drive his bike off the pier, maybe. Even with all it’s extra features, it wasn’t equipped for that.

So, Sam didn’t dare try to say it.

“Please. Talk to me again when you’ve learned what an actual insult is,” Dean replied, putting on his helmet.

Sam laughed, and did likewise. A girl was watching them from a motel room window, and he waved, which caused her to run out of view, curtain waving. He smiled. He had no misconceptions about how they looked— fucking awesome.

He started his engine first, and Dean followed soonafter, but obviously Dean had to ride first— “It’s like being in the driver’s seat but different,” was how he had put it.

Then, like that, they were out on the highway, with only the sky above them and miles of blacktop before them.

—

The plan was to visit every state, and take as much time as they so please. Maybe they’d find the world’s biggest ball of yarn and see it again. Sam said they’d have to go to a carnival, so there was that, and Dean was planning a surprise trip to the Grand Canyon. Sam’d also managed to grab a couple of local attraction booklets whenever they entered a state, so they were pretty much set. They didn’t know how long the trip would take, didn’t really plan for it, but that didn’t matter right now. This was like a “hey-I’m-glad-you-didn’t-die-and-I’m-glad-we’re-still-together” celebration trip.

They started off in Montana, where they bought the bikes, and would criss-cross all around until they ended in Kansas, where the bunker was, and where Garth had promised to leave the Impala.

Dean had hated that part of the plan, even loathed it, but it was a small price to pay for Sam’s happiness. He had suggested the trip.

Well, Sam had suggested a road trip, it was Dean who jumped up and down like a little kid and begged them to get motorcycles. So, here they were, gunning it down the i-90, surrounded on both sides by sloping plains of grass. The highway was old here, and worn, and little sprouts of green life peeked between cracks. The air was humid, but it didn’t bother them with all the wind they had going on. Montana stretched flatly for miles— they could see the highway in front of them for as long as the eye could see, wavering and shimmering with the heat of the summer sun. The grass was mostly green on either side, which Sam mused could be used as a metaphor, with sprinkles of sun-burnt golden throughout.

The sky above them was ocean-blue, with not a single cloud in sight. Dean wouldn’t be surprised if a tumbleweed blew by, or they passed a farmhouse with an old man sitting out front, chewing on some barley. It was that kind of day, one that reminded him all too much of “More than a Feeling” by Boston; the slow guitar riffs and powerful, lonesome voice.

Alone on the highway, Dean let his bike cruise dangerously close to the center of the road, just enjoying the feeling of flying.

Sam honked behind him, and Dean shook his head, coasting back into the safety of his lane. He let out a loud whoop, raised a gloved fist, and heard Sam laugh behind him, even with the humming of the engines pulsing below them.

The road stayed much the same, but no less beautiful, for many miles. They stopped at an empty red 50s diner at some forgotten exit to stretch their legs and eat before they got back on the road. While in the diner, which was playing “Your Cheatin’ Heart” by Hank Williams softly on the speakers, Sam gave Dean the roadmap and told him when to turn onto the next highway, where they could find a motel, and be at Yellowstone in Wyoming by sundown tomorrow.

Yellowstone was Sam’s idea, and Dean knew Sam had been there before with Jess, but he made no remark about that. He knew the place was probably in Sam’s top 5, the nature-loving wacko, so by default, it was one of Dean’s favorites, too.

They left the diner early, orange and red sunlight bathing the ground through the blinds. The waitress waved at them, a peculiar look in her eye, and wished them well.

And then they were off.

—

Montana hazily melted into Wyoming, and the only sure sign they had actually gone over the border was the rusty old welcome sign. In the early, heated morning, the shadow of the sign stretched across their lane, creating a fleeting moment of shadow.

Yellowstone was incredible, every roadsign that told them it was ___ many miles away had Sam gushing out facts about it at every rest stop like he was one of the geysers there. Dean felt like he had already been there by the time they were welcomed into the park.

It was all- more- than Sam had told him. Dean had purposefully lowered his expectations by force of habit, but even he could admit that his breath was taken away as passed under miles of trees that seemed to stretch on endlessly above them. The sound of their bikes was dulled by the flora and fauna around them. They had gotten their even earlier than expected- five in the afternoon- and bird twitters echoed around them to celebrate their success. Dean blasted “Satisfaction” by the Rolling Stones for added effect, and the sound of the music seemed to reverberate all around them.

After the grand tour, led by tour guide Sam Winchester, Dean had seen pretty much everything in the park, including Old Faithful.

They had managed to snag a camping site right on the edge of the park, a couple miles north of a stellar lake, where Sam and Dean spent many hours, just sitting on the shore shoulder-by-shoulder and enjoying the rare moment of serenity. They were here now, and at first they had been back-to-back, leaning against each other and just enjoying a beer. The camping supplies given to them by the park had included an old radio, and it was buzzing a faded tune that was distantly recognizable as “Beat of Burden” by the Rolling Stones; a band that seemed to follow them on this trip.

As the night wore on, however, they ended up lying down side-by-side, staring at the magnificent view of the stars that Yellowstone dutifully provided.

Sam kept looking over at Dean, starlight reflecting his eyes. He never said anything, and Dean pretended not to notice. He found himself checking up on Sam, too, which is what he guessed Sam was doing. Their jackets were off, slung over their chairs back around the campfire.

Dean pretended to check his watch. “The fire’s probably getting low back there,” he said into the night.

“Yeah,” Sam said, distracted, not making the “we-shouldn’t-have-left-it-unattended” speech Dean thought he would receive.

“Sam?” Dean asked, looking over to find Sam looking at him with that old stupid hero worship look.

“Right, we should head back,” Sam replied quickly, looking down. He got up, and they walked side-by-side back to camp, Dean wondering what the hell that was all about.

—

Dew coated their bikes the morning they were set to continue their trip; five days later. It was so early, the sun hadn’t even caught up with them. They left the campsite as it had been, wiped the seats of their bikes, slung on their jackets, and were on their way south.

—

Idaho, Washington, Oregon, California, Nevada, and Utah were all spectacular in their own respective ways. Portland was rainy, as always, and Palo Alto was just how Sam remembered. Forests, fields, lakes, and deserts all had roads running through them, and many of those roads had seen Sam and Dean over the course of a few days. Diner after diner after motel housed the Winchesters. The states were blurring by, and Sam felt the trip was passing by way too fast.

And Dean still hadn’t returned his iPod.

After filling it with classic rock, Dean had used it far more than its intended recipient. Right now, a farm somewhere in Imperial, California was shaded, even though it was midday. Deep grey clouds and a fierce wind gave the whole world a blue hue. Dean watched rows of wheat fly by as “Wild Horses” by the Rolling Stones played in one ear as he rode.

As soon as the song ended, it was raining, and _hard._ It was as if some invisible composer had been given his cue to start this maelstrom. Rain blurred his view, and it was still warm, so steam misted off of the road in front of him like ghosts. Afraid for visibility and for Sammy, Dean pulled over, parking his bike at the edge of the swaying, whispering fields.

Sam followed soon after, throwing off his helmet and running into the field, whooping like a little kid.

“What the hell are you doing?” Dean demanded, but his tone was light and he fought back a laugh. “Get back over here!” he called, and began to chase after Sam, abandoning his own helmet and letting the rain soak him through. He almost lost sight of his little brother, those damn plants sticking to him and blocking his field of vision. At least Sasquatch here was taller than the crop, thank bejeezus.

Sam stopped in a gap in the plants, a worn old road that led far away to an old plantation-style house up the hill. His hair was darkened by the rain and plastered to the sides of his face. It wasn’t that cold, but his face was pale and his lips were very red. Rivulets of water ran down his face. He laughed again, spinning around and holding his arms out.

“Did you take something, Julie Andrews?” Dean accused, grinning.

“I dunno. I just needed a break. I think we should take a break.”

“There’s a motel a little ways away.” Dean suggested. “And how fun would it be if you got hypothermia, huh? We should go, little brother,”

“Can we just stay here, for a moment, please?” Sam begged, reaching forward and grabbing him by the arms.

Dean raised an eyebrow, but nodded, water falling into his eyes and causing him to blink rapidly.

“Lemme get that,” Sam said before he could do anything, wiping the water away from his face. He was gentle, using only the pad of his thumb and holding his tongue between his teeth as if the whole world depending on Sam cleaning off Dean’s face.

For some reason he couldn’t fathom, Dean’s throat felt constricted, and he couldn’t breathe, just watching Sam look over him with so much love.

He swallowed, and tried to speak. “Uh,” was all he got out, and Sam laughed again. Dean wished he’d laugh even more.

“Right, sorry,” Sam apologized, but he didn’t move back.

Dean laughed nervously, and suddenly Sam was  _kissing him_.

He didn’t know how it had happened, hadn’t noticed Sam’s hands gently cupping his face and making Dean stand on his tiptoes so their lips could meet. Stunned, he kissed back automatically for a second, before breaking apart and sputtering.

“Dude!” he exclaimed, but he started laughing, and he  _couldn’t fucking stop._

Then Sam was laughing along, like some great big joke had passed between them, something side-splitting. They were both grinning like loonies, the rain all but forgotten. Then Dean was the one to pull Sam towards him again, his hand snaked into Sam’s hair, grabbing the back of his head and bringing them closer. Sam’s hands went around his waist and they just felt so damn  _right_  around him. Dean opened up Sam’s mouth with his own, and Sam let him in, willingly, making a small noise in the back of his throat. Dean kissed him roughly, passionately, and Sam was eating it all up, moaning in pleasure. They broke apart only when they had to, and the first kiss became the second, third, fourth.

Sooner or later, they did end up going to that motel, because Dean’s concern for Sam won out even over kissing, but let’s just say the night they spent there was spent getting to re-know each other, mapping it out, skin-to-skin.

By some miracle, by some sign from above, which was weird considering the situation, Sam’s motorcycle had broken down. That might’ve seemed bad, might’ve looked like they were stuck at the motel, but Dean had a better idea.

And that was how Sam found himself on the back of Dean’s motorcycle, hands tightly around his brother’s waist and face digging into the crook of his neck.

He decided he liked not having his own bike.

—

The rest of the trip was a blur, states and parks and attractions all but a memory.

Dean’d kissed him at the height of the Ferris Wheel at some b-list amusement park, which was nice, but the mood and the fireworks were made a little less romantic by the fact that Dean had a hand down Sam’s jeans.

Their relationship changed very quickly during the course of that trip, but neither of them gave a single fuck.

The Grand Canyon was breathtaking, and the temperature went down considerably while they were there, which allowed them to take long, scenic walks without breaking a sweat. That is, unless either of them wanted to break a sweat, which did happen in the Grand Canyon itself, thank you very much.

The cheap decision to buy a disposable camera had proven to be a good one— back at the bunker, Sam loaded a cheesy scrapbook with the pictures they had taken of places, things, and each other. He tried to throw away the dumb one Dean’d took of him just reading in a motel. It was blurry and offangle, but Dean made him keep it.

Sam’s motorcycle had been towed, fixed, and sold. Dean’s had been sold at a much higher price than they had gotten it for, which put a few extra bills in their pockets. Garth had proven trustworthy, as always, and Dean had actually kissed the Impala when they returned. This had been the trip of a lifetime, something they really had needed. It had done wonders for the both of them, in multiple ways that aren’t easily explainable.

All Sam and Dean knew was, they were now ready to take on the world, and they were ready to take it on _together._


End file.
